


a pigment of truth.

by katarama



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [23]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artists, F/F, Future Fic, Kissing in the Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 02:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6137905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trees whisper to Lydia, and she writes their messages in the lead of her pencil, in the strokes of her brush.  She can’t explain it, but Malia doesn’t need her to.  Malia understands.  The woods call her home in the earth beneath her paws and the brush in her fur, the shade and protection of the trees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a pigment of truth.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexenglish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/gifts).



> For the Artist AU for twfemslashficrec’s list of femslash february prompts!

“Stay still just a little bit longer,” Lydia says, her voice carrying, echoing from the rebuilt porch of the Hale house.  It’s easy for her to say.  She’s sitting warm and dry, only the slightest breeze blowing by to ruffle the skirt of her floral print dress.  Her easel and canvas are perfectly anchored down, by some kind of magic Malia can’t explain, and there’s an unused paintbrush tucked behind one of Lydia’s ears, holding her hair out of her face.  Lydia’s only really using her charcoal right now, Malia thinks, blocking out spaces and sketching in intricate lines.

At least, that’s how Malia is pretty sure this works.  Her art abilities are limited to what Stiles calls Modern Art and what Malia calls throwing paint at a canvas and seeing what sticks, sometimes dragging her claws through the upper layer to make designs.  Lydia was always the artist of the two of them, even back to in high school, when she was drawing lines that grew into trees in her notebooks without a second thought.  Malia’s learned a little bit, mostly from listening to Lydia vent at the end of the day about pretentious art school students.

What Malia’s learned most about, though, is stillness.  Malia’s learned to slow down her constant instinct to move, the instinct to not stay in one place for too long, so that Lydia can sketch out what she needs.  She’s learned to recognize the look in Lydia’s eyes when she has an idea, when Lydia’s fingers start itching for a pencil, when Lydia’s brain kicks into gear jumbling up measurements and proportions with the blur of the wind in the trees of the woods.  

That’s another thing that Malia’s learned.  The trees whisper to Lydia, and she writes their messages in the lead of her pencil, in the strokes of her brush.  She can’t explain it, but Malia doesn’t need her to.  Malia understands.  The woods call her home in the earth beneath her paws and the brush in her fur, the shade and protection of the trees.  

Lydia didn’t explain that morning when she asked Malia if she would mind going to the edge of the woods with her for a while.  Malia knows by now that that’s code for, “I need a model for my art,” but she decided to go along anyway.  Lydia seemed to think it was urgent, had made a cryptic remark about the winds changing.  There was homework to be procrastinating, so Malia put clothes on and got in the car with her.  

Malia regrets her easy compliance now, an hour and a half later.  She loves the cool breezes of a storm, the way the clouds swirl gray tinged purple in the sky, the way everything looks vivid green, the smell of fresh rain in the air.  The way the ground gives beneath her feet and the way the earth feels alive.  

It’s much less fun in human skin, though.  Malia knows she won’t get sick, one of the great blessings of being a werecoyote, but it doesn’t make it particularly enjoyable, regardless.  Her shorts are stuck to her thighs, soaked through to her underwear, and although her not wearing a bra out of the house seemed like a good idea at the time, now it means her nipples are hard in her see-through shirt, her skin covered in goosebumps and her hair plastered to her forehead.  Her shoes and socks are on the porch next to Lydia, and her toes have gone wrinkled and muddy from the wet grass.  Holding her eyes open in the rain is trickier than she would like to admit, but she mostly manages.  It’s harder keeping her eyes open than it is keeping her eyes the bright, luminescent blue of a were, shining vivid against the greys and the dark, dark browns.

“If you pull out your paints today...” Malia threatens, but Lydia doesn’t respond.  She only purses her lips, frowns and sketches in another set of lines.  Malia can hear the scratch of the charcoal on the canvas, irregular but soothing.  She zones back out, letting herself tune into the sounds of the woods.

She’s jolted back to reality by the sound of a camera snapping once, and then again.  “Done,” Lydia finally says, standing up from her stool and stretching out her back and shoulders.  “How are you feeling?”

Malia lets the tension drop from her body, rolling her shoulders and stretching, and she takes a breath or two, her eyes going back to their normal brown.  “Wet,” she says.  “Wet and cold.”

“I didn’t mean to take as long as I did, but at least I’m pleased with how it turned out.  You can see it, if you want.”

“Come here, first,” Malia says.

“It’s raining and wet,” Lydia says, looking down at her feet.  She’s wearing perfectly neat pink shoes, the heel too high and too thin to be walking around in the mud.

“Exactly,” Malia says.  She walks up to the porch and stands there, her hand outstretched, and she waits for Lydia to kick off her heels and follow.  “You should feel the rain before you add in the color.”

“That isn’t how my process works,” Lydia says, but Malia only grins at her and waits for her to fold.  It’s only a matter of time.  Lydia sighs but carefully takes her heels off, walks down the steps of the porch to meet Malia with her feet bare.  She grabs Malia’s hand, and Malia tugs her along, careful to keep away from where the grass turns to mud turns to woods.

“There’s no such thing as too much inspiration,” Malia says.  “It can be like that movie you like so much.  Paint me like one of your French girls, kissing in the rain.  Or whatever it was.”

“You’re getting them mixed up,” Lydia says, but she smiles, and when Malia presses in close, she doesn’t stop her.  Lydia’s skin and dress are warm and dry against Malia’s skin, though when Malia winds her hand up into Lydia’s curls, she can already start to feel the dampness seeping in.  Without her heels to maintain the balance, Lydia goes up on her tiptoes to press her lips against Malia’s, the rain making the first touch cold and wet before the slow drag and the warmth of Lydia’s tongue warms Malia to her core.

Lydia doesn’t let her draw the kiss out as much as she wants, because it’s still raining, though it’s slowed to a drizzle.  Malia wonders if that was intentional, if the timing is as much of a sense for Lydia as the changes in the air.  It’s hard to tell, sometimes.  Not even Lydia knows everything.

“There,” Malia says gently when they pull apart.  Lydia’s thin dress is just as wet as Malia’s is, where the two were pressed close, and Malia wants to strip it off her and see the rain run down Lydia’s soft skin.  She doesn’t, though.  Lydia’s only human, and Malia can smell the tinges of the evening chill settling into the air.  There’s only so much more of this Lydia can handle before she’ll come down with a cold and blame Malia.

“I think we both need a shower,” Lydia says, and Malia smiles.  It’s not rain down Lydia’s skin; it’s one better, getting warm and clean with Derek’s giant, fluffy towels waiting just outside for them.

“Shower it is,” Malia says, and this time, Lydia leads her by the hand.

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr [here](sleepy-skittles.tumblr.com).


End file.
